


to the end of the age

by vulcantastic (juxtapose)



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 13:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13741884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juxtapose/pseuds/vulcantastic
Summary: Tomas didn't think there was anything worse than feeling abandoned by God. Then Marcus left.





	to the end of the age

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my first long-ish finished product for Exowrimo! Thanks to the entire fan community for being supportive and cheering me on throughout the process. It's been a bit since I've posted. Appreciate any and all feedback. Enjoy! #RenewTheExorcist

"I will be with you always, to the end of the age."

Matthew 28:20

* * *

 

“ _God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, I appeal to your holy name_ …”

They are at the broken, abandoned St. Anthony’s, of all places, and Tomas feels like a cliche. Where it all began, as they say. In the complete darkness (all electricity had been cut off in the building when the diocese shut it down), he remembers how harsh and bright the basement lights used to be. How could he possibly have let the kids’ choir have their Christmas concerts here once upon a time? That was practically _asking_ for the parents’ eyes to bleed...

Bennett is tied to a chair in front of him––the thing wearing Bennett’s face, that is. Something in the lines around his eyes, in the determined square of his shoulders, tells Tomas that his friend is still in there. Still fighting. And that knowledge is enough. It has to be.

He clutches the rosary in one hand, holding open the Rites of Exorcism’s splayed pages in the other. “ _....humbly begging your kindness, that you graciously grant me help against this and every unclean spirit now tormenting this creature of yours––_ ”

Bennett spits on the floor.

“ _––through Christ our Lord._ ”

“Amen.” Mouse’s voice is resolute beside him. Tomas can’t––doesn’t want to tear his eyes away from the text to look at her, though he knows it will help. It had helped when he’d look up and see…. _him_ , praying fervently beside him, where he always was. Even in moments where, down to the base of Tomas’ bones, hope felt lost.

They’ve been here two weeks. Taking shifts. But the church’s sacred ground“––and it was still sacred, despite the corruption of the Chicago Diocese and the gradual breakdown of the parish––seems to have little effect on the demon ravaging Bennett’s body. In a moment of sheer candor, as she sat on his couch that had become her semi-permanent bed, staring up at the ceiling, Mouse had told Tomas that it couldn’t be a good sign at all. This was bigger than either of them could have predicted. This––this infiltration, this infection of demonic influence across the Catholic Church––had been brewing for months. Years, more likely.

He snaps out of his thoughts to see Mouse in the salt circle, crouched behind the chair, tying the ropes tighter around Bennett’s torso as he struggles against their grip.

“Quite kinky, aren’t you, little bitch?” Bennett’s voice is coated in raspy contempt. “I can work with that.”

“Shut up.” Mouse pulls the rope toward her tighter, and Bennett winces and laughs.

“Don’t hurt him,” Tomas says, and realizes how stupid it sounds when it leaves his mouth. Bennett is already hurt. Possibly beyond repair. Mouse looks at him with a combination of pity and annoyance. She’s played this game all her life. She’s lost too many people.

Tomas doesn’t want to let her down.

He clears his throat. “I’m going in,” he says simply, and Mouse steps out of the circle, concern set in her brow.

“Are you sure?” she asks. She puts a hand on his shoulder.

Tomas finally meets her gaze. “It’s been 16 days too long, Mouse. I have to get Bennett back, whatever the cost. You’re the one who said I need to harness my abilities. Well. I am ready to.”

At the mention of his host’s name, the demon inside Bennett lets out a grumbling chuckle. “How heroic of you, Tomas. Bennett’s not home right now, though. Can I take a message?”

“Father Bennett must have felt like quite the conquest for you,” Tomas grits through his teeth. “But he is in there. And I will find him.”

The demon snorts. “He was lost before I even moved in. Lost boy, the Vatican’s little lackey...he’ll be much happier now. Answering to a different master.”

Mouse leans forward, eye-to-eye with the monster. “Devon Bennett’s only master is God, his Father, who loves him unconditionally. You’ll never know such a love.”

“Love, love, love. Such a beautiful thing, isn’t it? And so destructive.” Bennett throws his head back, tilting it to and fro, cracking his neck. “This one,” he says, nodding to Mouse. “She’s moved on. She knows what she got herself into, letting that man give her a name. A purpose.”

Tomas turns and puts down his book and his rosary on a nearby table. Loosens his collar. Rolls up his sleeves, trying to clear his mind.

“But you,” he hears from behind, Bennett’s voice bouncing off the vast basement walls, “You’ll never stop loving Father Marcus.”

He freezes. The air stands still between the three of them. He can feel both Bennett and Mouse’s eyes on him. And of course, like always, he hears the familiar drawl in the back of his mind: _Don’t listen to it, Tomas. It’s trying to distract you. Focus!_

 _Stay with me_.

He whirls around, stares Bennett and the thing inside him straight down.

“Tomas.” Mouse’s voice is very far away. “Tomas, think about this––”

But he’s already moving, consciousness coursing in the direction of Bennett’s very core. _Let me in_ , he screams silently.

As he starts to slip out of the reality grounding him in St. Anthony’s basement, he recalls Mouse’s gentle chastising as they drove along the west coast, cool air teasing their faces through the cracked windows, weeks ago now...

_“You and I both know how much power you have,” she said, “And how much of a difference you can make. But we can’t save everyone.”_

_Tomas silently counted cars as they passed, knowing what was bound to come next._

_“You need to be careful. We almost lost you once––”_

_“But you didn’t,” Tomas interrupted, almost surprising himself at the curtness of his own voice. He wanted to say,_ We lost Marcus instead.

_He didn’t have to. “I missed him, too,” Mouse said. He looked at her, and her eyes were fixed on the half-lit highway. “When he used to do this. Run off, afraid of himself. I know it’s hard...not to let him take over your every thought. He manages to do that somehow, doesn’t he?”_

_Tomas averted his gaze to his hands, rolled up to into fists on his lap. Mouse’s last words on the long drive reverberated through him, cutting like ice through wet air._

_"You’re not alone, Tomas."_

The world goes dark, and the last thing Tomas wonders is whether or not this thing––love, the very force behind God’s creations themselves and all their potential––has trapped him in hell.

* * *

Tomas has visited the Vatican a handful of times. Not enough to know the vast grounds inside out. But apparently, it’s exactly what Bennett’s seeing in his head, or some approximation of it. There’s chattering around him––the sound of bustling tourists––and yet Tomas remains, it appears, entirely alone.

He gingerly takes a few steps into a small chapel. Marcus would have said that this is a cliche location for a demonic heart-to-heart. Tomas has to agree.

“Bennett,” he calls, voice echoing off the tall ceilings. “Devon. You are stronger than this.”

He takes a few steps, shoes clicking on the marble floor. Though there’s no one around him, a sort of humming vibration fills Tomas’ senses, indicating he is not the only presence here.

This time, he addresses the demon. “Reveal yourself, unclean spirit.”

Suddenly, he hears Bennett’s voice, muffled, tinted with fear: _Tomas._

He looks up and around, eyes wide, looking for some sign of his friend. The relief knowing that Bennett is, indeed, still fighting for his life pours over him. _Tomas. Get out of here…_

“I’m not leaving without you,” Tomas says firmly. He backs out of the chapel, making his way down the long corridors and past the large statues and paintings. “Tell me where you are.”

He analyzes his surroundings for a moment, and only then does he notice that the art all around him is defaced, covered in lewd markings. This is no Vatican, he thinks. This is a mockery.

“How’s tricks, love?”

Tomas stops in his tracks, turning toward a voice he wishes he hadn’t heard. Sure enough, there’s Marcus, grinning widely, arms crossed in front of his chest. Marcus lets out a low chuckle.

“Miss me?” he asks. His voice sounds inverted, like a waltz that’s suddenly placed in a minor key.

Tomas’ stomach drops. “Where is Bennett?” It comes out like more of a sentence than a question; Tomas hopes if he commits himself to sounding resolute he might actually, eventually, feel that way––despite everything. Despite the image of someone he’d longed to see for months appearing before him.

“Doesn’t matter.” He tilts his head in curiosity, and it makes Tomas feel sick, because how could something so foul look so much like someone he…

Someone he loved?

“You don’t belong here,” he says, stepping toward the Marcus-shaped thing. “I cast you out in the name of the Lord, Jesus Christ––”

Before he can finish, he’s thrown to the other side of the room, smashing into a marble statue. Its shattering pieces tumble on top of him, and Tomas feels something in his arm snap. He claws his way through the rubble as Marcus’ voice fills the room again.

“Psh,” The thing scoffs, “Don’t you remember what happened with Andy Kim?” The mention of Andy’s name makes Tomas’ eyes sting.

“Ah, of course you do. It haunts you every day. Made poor little Marcus run away, abandon you to do this over and over, losing another bit of yourself every time, until you just…” He snaps his fingers. “Disappear.”

“He’ll come back,” Tomas chokes out, shaking his head a little, trying to shake away the familiar drawl of Marcus’ voice coated with demonic energy. He’s lightheaded, nauseous. But he stumbles forward, hunched over slightly, breathing hard, eye-to-eye with the mask of Marcus’ crystal blues.

“Not for you. Thought you were your God’s favorite child for a while, eh? Thought you were somethin’ else.” The thing licks its lips. “But you’re nothin.’ Marcus knows that. Takes a nobody to recognize a nobody.”

“...Leave this servant of God,” Tomas mutters, everything around him beginning to spin, “and take me instead.” Searing pain seems to drill through his skin, his bones, his very mind, though he’s unsure of the source. He knows he’s unsafe, that he needs to get out...but he doesn’t move. He can’t.

“What’s your secret, Father Tomas?” The demon taunts. It takes a few steps toward Tomas in Marcus’ gangly legs, and it looks wrong. Like a child running a puppet show. “Do you even know what it is? I think I do.”

“You don’t want anyone to bring you back. Do you, Tomas Ortega?” He grins. The teeth in Marcus’ mouth are yellowed and decayed, lips chapped. “It’s so lonely back there. Loving so many someones who walked away from you. Even your God has left you here to fend for yourself. What’s left?”

Tomas closes his eyes. He starts reciting the Lord’s Prayer, but his voice falters. “I’m tired,” he gasps, and he falls to his knees. “I am so tired.”

“Then go to sleep, Tomas,” the Marcus-thing purrs, kneeling down next to him and running an ice-cold hand through Tomas’ hair.

“Don’t,” he whispers. He wants to lean into the touch. Wants to imagine it’s Marcus, _really_ Marcus, because perhaps it’s the closest he’ll ever get to him again.

“Shh,” is Marcus’ voice all around him. “I’ll take care of you. You don’t have to feel alone anymore. Just let me in.”

He raises his head. Looks beyond the demon’s piercing eyes.

_Are you listening, Lord God? Are you here with me? What if I can’t do this? What if I can’t…?_

_I’m alone. I’m alone. Am I…?_

The demon is still cooing at him, making promises of letting Tomas rest, letting him leave the heavy world on his shoulders behind. But he tries to tune them out, even as the demon’s voice turns into multiple layers of voices––this thing, whatever it was, inside Bennett, calling upon its network of inhuman creatures to take their next victim.

But then, he sees his abuela through the darkness. She’s smiling at him, reaching out a hand, eyes soft.

He sees Marcus, crooked grin splayed on his face, head tilted to the side, looking at him in the way that made Tomas’ heartbeat quicken just a bit every time.

And God is in the images of them both, radiating off them in a warm glow.

He has to get to them, if it’s the last thing he ever does. He makes eye contact with the demon again, and through the immense pain, lifts a hand to his chest and clutches the crucifix around his neck.

“You are not Marcus,” he grits out, each syllable crashing past his aching throat. “And I am not alone.”

Tomas lunges for the dark, twisted figure in front of him. And he screams.

* * *

And then the world goes light.

At first, Tomas thinks, _Lord, I am not worthy._ Because such brightness permeating his senses could only mean God was receiving his soul.

But, gradually, the shock-white ceiling comes into his view, blurriness giving way to sharp tiled squares. A rhythmic beeping comes from somewhere nearby.

He looks to his left, squinting at the white curtains against the white wall that let in a dash of black moonlight. Looks down at the IV plucking his arm, and closes his eyes again.

“It’s been two days.”

He opens his eyes, turns his head despite the sharp pain it causes. Mouse is sitting in a chair at his bedside. Her eyes are wet, and she reaches out, placing her hand on Tomas’ arm. It’s only then he realizes his right arm is in a cast. The stiffness is obvious, now, and it makes him wince involuntarily.

“Why is it I always end up with one of you in hospital after you’ve gone and played martyr?” she asks, running a hand over her face. Her hair is tousled, jacket wrinkled; the dark circles under her eyes indicate she hasn’t slept in a long time.

Tomas shakes his head. “I just...I remember reaching out to Bennett...the Vatican...I tried…” He remembers the twisted image of Marcus towering over him. What happened?”

“What bloody didn’t?” she snaps. Stands up, begins to pace a bit. Fidgets with her hands. Tomas knows by now this means she’s trying to keep herself calm. “Arm broken in three places. Bruised ribcage. Concussion. But you don’t remember any of that, of course. Least of all that you did a whole lot of it to yourself.”

“I...what?” Tomas blinks, trying to sit up and wincing at the attempt. He looks down at himself. The hospital gown is short-sleeved, and he notices up and down his arms strings of crooked red marks. Lifting his left hand, he runs his fingernails lightly along the exposed bit of his right arm between the cast and the sleeve. Each finger traces naturally along each scar. _Did I…?_

“You hurt yourself.” Mouse pauses in mid-step to glare at him. “I tried to stop you, but it... _you_ ...My God, Tomas, it was _in you._ The demon. Breaking you...from the inside. It had power over you and Bennett at the same time. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

He meets her eyes and hates the way it makes him feel. Failure settles in the pit of his stomach. “Bennett?”

“Locked down,” she replies, settling down on the edge of his bed and placing a hand on his leg. “For now.”

Tomas feels his breath catch in his throat. There is a long moment of silence before he chokes out a question that becomes a statement by the time the syllables finish leaving his mouth. “So it didn’t work.”

“It took your body for a tour, Tomas. Let’s make that clear,” Mouse mutters. “But it’s made a home in Bennett. You took quite a lot out of it, though, when you fought it off. It’s quiet for now. Bennett’s been unconscious on-and-off since we got you to hospital.”

He wishes he could remember. Any of it. All he can feel now is the ache in his bones. “How did you get it...me...to stop?” he manages.

Mouse looks down at her lap. “Well, eventually, I had help.”

This time, Tomas sits up fully, propped up on his good elbow. “What?”

She stands. Walks toward the door, half-turning to say, “He’ll want to see you.”

Mouse walks out, leaving the door ajar behind her, and Tomas feels his stomach sink.

* * *

Marcus Keane stands at Tomas’ bedside and says, “You look terrible.”

And at first, Tomas says nothing. He traces with his eyes the familiar lines of Marcus’ face. Takes note of new, deep cuts and bruises. Runs along the width of his broad shoulders covered by a tattered leather coat, logs in his memory Marcus’ tired, hunched-over stance, the heaviness in his eyes.

Then he replies, “So do you.”

He doesn’t realize he’s been crying until Marcus charges toward him, immediately eliminating the space between them by enveloping Tomas’ fragile frame in a hug. The feeling of Marcus around him overwhelms the pain in his weary muscles––Marcus’ scruffy stubble in the crook of Tomas’ neck, Marcus’ strong hands bracing Tomas’ back.

Tomas breathes in the scent of him (sweat, salt, mint gum, a hint of tobacco). Reaches up with his good arm, rests his hand on the back of Marcus’ neck.

“Almost lost you there,” Marcus mumbles. “Mentally sparring with demons again, eh?”

Tomas moves over slightly to give Marcus room to sit down on the edge of the bed. They sort of fit into each other like mosaic pieces, Marcus leaning back on one arm, facing Tomas, while the latter leans forward, instinctively placing a hand on Marcus’ leg. He can’t bring himself to break the contact between them. They sit like this for a few moments.

Then, Tomas stares down at the mussed white sheets in his lap. “I couldn’t save Bennett.”

“But you _weakened_ the thing, Tomas,” Marcus replies, attempting encouragement, “At least for a little while. Gives us a bit of time to regroup. I was talking to Mouse earlier, and if the three of us––”

“I can’t.” Tomas’ voice comes out quieter, shakier than he wanted

Marcus sits up now, pulling away slightly and tilting his head to try and meet Tomas’ eyes.

“I don’t think I…” He squeezes his eyes shut. Doesn’t want to face Marcus pitying him with the furrow in his brow, the gentleness of his voice. “I don’t remember fighting it off, Marcus. I just remember...falling.” _I remember that the demon wore your face_ , he adds silently. “I remember thinking that this thing was going to keep me with it for as long as it could, to break me down until I let it take Bennett for good. And the worst part of it is...I don’t think I wanted...to come back.”

The admission hangs in the air between them for a few moments. Tomas feels his face burning with shame. Then, he hears the rustling of the bedsheets as Marcus simply shrugs.

“Maybe a part of you didn’t,” he says, almost nonchalantly. “Humans are complicated. You’re not exactly immune just because you have a particular affinity for demonic telepathy.”

“This isn’t a joke, Marcus,” Tomas mutters, and then Marcus’ finger is under his chin, gently lifting his head to meet his gaze. Marcus nods a little, gingerly tracing some of the scars along the arm Tomas had placed on his leg.

“It wanted to take you. Destroy your spirit,” he says in almost a whisper, “but something in you kept fighting.”

Tomas leans back against the pillows, bits and pieces of memories flooding back to him like a cut-up film reel. “I saw _mi abuelita_ ,” he says, smiling softly. “I...I saw you. And I thought...I had to come back.”

“You’re stronger than you know, Tomas. Why couldn’t you see it?”

“I just felt like I couldn’t do this alone.” Tomas swallows thickly. Knows how vulnerable he must look, how scared, in front of the person he’d wanted to be strong for. “I felt that...somehow...God had left me to do this alone, in that moment.”

Marcus looks at him for a few seconds. Then shakes his head. “You’re a bloody fool,” he says. His voice is a little shaky, and Tomas realizes perhaps he’s not the only vulnerable one in this. “I was hard on you. So’s Mouse, from what she told me. But you’re plenty capable of doing this on your own. I made the mistake of thinking that you _should_.”

Tomas’ brow furrows in confusion despite himself. “What do you mean? You’re always going on about how being an exorcist is the loneliest job there is––”

“It’s basic logic,” he cuts off Tomas, talking quicker, and Tomas knows this means he wants to get the words out before fear makes him silent. “We need Mouse, and she needs us. Bennett needs us. You need me.” Marcus exhales, eyes big and wet again. “And bloody hell, I need you.”

Tomas looks down again. He can feel his face getting hot. Perhaps the confession is enough to make Marcus want to leave. Perhaps it’s enough for him to take off on Mouse and Tomas all over again. But then his voice rings out again, soft, cracking a bit:

“God didn’t leave you, Tomas,” he mutters. “I did. And I’m sorry.”

Tomas looks up at him. Marcus’ blue eyes are oceans, tears threatening to burst from them in waves. He nods, slowly. “I understand why you needed to leave. I do not resent it. I...forgive you.”

“Absolving me already,” Marcus chuckles humorlessly. “Perfectly priestly of you.”

Tomas leans away a little, turning his head to face the wall opposite Marcus, and says, “But...I missed you.”

A few beats of silence. Then, Marcus’ deep voice filling the room again: “Yeah. Me too. More than you know.”

Tomas tries to swallow down the lump in his throat, but it’s no use. He turns back to face Marcus, who hasn’t moved, who’s hovering over him as if he is this broken thing, and perhaps, at least for this moment, Tomas is. But it’s not permanent. He knows that now.

Marcus runs a hand through Tomas’ messy hair. “We can fight this,” he says, voice even and determined. “Together. We’ll bring Bennett back, and we’ll play hero for a bit. See if we can’t cast these things out for good.”

Tomas reaches up, catches Marcus’ hand with his. “Thank you,” he replies simply, “for bringing me back.”

Apparently, Marcus doesn’t have anything cheeky to say to this, no _I-told-you-so_ ’s. He leans over, presses a kiss to Tomas’ matted forehead. The sensation warms him through and through, and Tomas lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in. Marcus dips his head a little so their foreheads are touching, and Tomas closes his eyes, feeling the sereneness that seemed foreign to him for so long.

“Ahem.”

Marcus sits up abruptly, and Tomas clears his throat. Mouse stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, brow raised a bit. “Doctor’s coming in to check on you in a minute, Tomas. Best look sharp. She’s thinking we might be able to get you out of here by tonight.”

“Really?” Tomas perks up. He hasn’t been particularly conscious throughout his stay, but he hates hospitals, so the sooner he can leave, the better.

Mouse nods, walking over and gesturing for Tomas to lift his head so she can fluff his pillows. “But don’t get any bloody ideas. You still have to recuperate before you even think of going back down to that basement. And _you_.” She reaches over to tug Marcus’ earlobe, then nods at Tomas. “Don’t screw this up.”

“Ow!” Marcus huffs, tumbling back out of the bed and walking around to the other side to meet her. “That bloody hurt.”

“Not as much as it will if you go off in a cinematic cloud of smoke again, you git.” Her voice falters a little, and Tomas looks back and forth between them––Marcus’ expression shrouded in regret, Mouse’s eyes wary with experience of being left behind, of losing trust, of losing faith.

“I won’t,” Marcus says, finitely. He meets Mouse’s gaze, then Tomas’. “I promise.”

Tomas takes in the image––Mouse, a sort of protective hand on his bed railing, going on about how he can’t bloody well exorcise anything with the amount of pain meds he’ll be on for the first few days; Marcus, absently smoothing out the wrinkled bed sheets over his legs. His heart swells.

Tomas interrupts Mouse in mid-sentence. “We have to save him,” he mutters, Bennett’s absence a heavy weight in the room.

“We will,” Mouse says.

Tomas nods. Looks at Marcus who, for the first time since he’d come in, smiles at him ever so slightly in reassurance. And for the first time in weeks, Tomas smiles back.

The sun peeks through the white window shades--a reminder from God, Tomas likes to think, that each day is a new opportunity to make right in the world. And for once, he knows with full certainty that he’s not alone in trying.


End file.
